A Thief In The Making
by lirance
Summary: Garrett needs to escape his mentors, and fast, but where can he go? On hiatus.
1. Default Chapter

A Thief in the Making  
  
A slight figure, coal black cloak swirling, dropped down into the street softly. Sparing only a single glance for the harsh, forbidding stonewall at his back, he made his way down the street, never leaving the shadows. Darting into the lee of a small building, he watched the Sheriff's forces with narrowed eyes. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a rocky, hard-edged pebble skittering across the cobblestones. Heads snapped round, not heeding a shadow in the corner of the eye, or a quiet splash on the edge of hearing. A dark form leaned back against the algae slimed, mildew stained wall, turbulent black waters churning around his midriff. When the watch officer turned away, muttering curses under his breath, he made his way down the swirling river. Reaching for damp, moss stained jetty, his foot slipped, and he was submerged in dark water. Almost carried away by the current, he surfaced and staggered onto dry land. Dousing the torch that was bracketed in the street ahead, he ducked through twisting alleyways and shadowy roads. Crouching in a narrow doorway, he studied a smudged, torn scrap of paper, stained with unidentifiable substances.  
  
'If you ever need a cheap place to stay, try the boarding house up on Hill Street. Use the name Fenning, and say Jason sent you.'  
  
He shoved it into his pocket and leaned against the door, reaching for a thin metal wire. Hairpins, fence wire, forks; his mentors had said he could make a lock pick out of anything. Several clicks and a strange 'thunk' later, the door opened at his touch. Locking it behind him, he ventured upstairs. Knocking on a solitary door in the third landing, his keen ears picked up grumbles, clatters and the heavy thump of a bedstand falling over. A crackle heralded the lighting of a torch. A surly, dark haired man in a stained nightshirt, brand in one fist, stout oak cudgel in the other, materialised in the threshold "yeah?" The cloaked figure smiled in the depths of his hood "I hear you have a room to let?" The landlord snarled "come back in the morning. I ain't got time fer curfew breakers." The stranger said softly "the name's Fenning". The man straightened up "Jason sent yer? I'll want the first month's rent now." A clinking purse landed in the center of his palm "second floor, door on yer left." The shadowy figure accepted the proffered key silently, spinning on his heel and leaving with a swish of a black cloak. 


	2. Chapter two

A dark form leaned against a door, reaching out a black-gloved hand to draw back his hood. Garrett was home.except, he wasn't a master thief yet. The power, the fame, the prestige that hindsight might lay upon him weren't there. In this day and age, he was a runaway, a disobedient acolyte, a drifter, with no possessions and no money in his pocket. But one thing was for certain: he was no longer a keeper. Smiling slightly, he stirred and gazed around at the opulent furnishings. Opulent, at least, to a young man raised in the shadows and dust of the keeper compound.  
  
Red and gold rugs, finely woven, caught underfoot. Lacquered, elegantly carved tables, bookshelves brimming over with leather bound chronicles, glittering diamond pane windows and oak chairs, their varnished surfaces rinsed in hellish tones by the glare of a tallow dip. In the next room a low bed was scattered with torn, worn out blankets, sheets that were thin from relentless washing and a pillow with a long slash ripped in it, like it had been stabbed with a knife.  
  
Garrett felt a slight breeze, tugging at his cloak and hair as he laid a hand on another door. Frowning, he opened it slowly, eyes darting around, fingers creeping for the hilt of his sword. Not knowing what horrors he faced, he advanced cautiously, ready to bolt. Taking a deep, ragged breath, he took a step forward and found himself.in a closet.  
  
Reaching out to straighten a coat hook, almost on impulse, he cursed his shredded nerves. The section of wall that slid away with the scream of stone nearly gave him a coronary. Blinking sweat from his eyes, he stirred a small black object with his toe. Fear, this cold, paralysing terror that lurked in the shadows of the heart, was new to him. A blinding explosion of light became his world as the flashbomb sluggishly activated itself. 'Maybe this is what it's like in the center of a star as it dies: no colour, no sound, no light, just the pain of all five overloaded senses screaming at once' he thought. When he had wiped away the blood that streamed from his eyes, he rose from the foetal position he'd taken, curled up on the dusty floorboards. Staggering into the next room like a drunken man, he fell onto the bed and into a death like slumber. Fell into the past. Sleep wasn't going to be a refuge this time. 


	3. Chapter three

Garrett crouched in the doorway, watching the stranger warily. Tall, cloaked and hooded with black, he was almost part of another world. People stared straight through him, moved aside to let him move past but never looked at him. Just acted like he wasn't even there.  
  
Builder, he was hungry. He hadn't eaten in three days. What if the Hammers caught him? The man was probably important from the way people avoided him. But important meant rich. Besides, something drew him to the stranger, a sense of...similarity, that was the only way he could put it. A connection. He'd have to risk it, or forever feel like he'd missed something. Eternally wonder about the man. Already, the chance was slipping through his fingers like sand. He merged into the shadows and became one with them. Close your eyes and disappear. Don't be afraid, they won't hurt you. Reaching out a slender hand, he closed his fingers round the purse and..."that's not for you." Not for you, not for you, not for you. The voice had strange harmonics that seemed to echo in his mind. A feeling of motion rocked him on his feet as he felt something change. Suddenly dizzy, he glanced round. He was watching a man he knew very well.  
  
Keeper Orland leaned closer, "find the key". Garrett nodded, remembering. He was on a mission, tagging along behind his mentor. Not a starving, homeless pickpocket, still mourning the death of family. He was nameless, faceless, a shadow. A Keeper neophyte. He crept along the corridor, eyes darting round, ears pricked for the faintest sound. Leaning against a door, he prised a nail out of a torch bracket and twisted it in a lock. Slinking into a dark corner, he waited for the footsteps to recede. But they didn't. A shadow cast on the wall, a whistled tune. 'Half a pound of tupenny rice, half a pound of treacle'. It had been a part of his childhood. Night soil carters hummed it, girls sang in their games, his mother... no, he couldn't think about that, not now.  
  
The guard's attention was focused upon another shadow, a small figure stealthily creeping past Garrett. Grinning like a tiger, the man fell in behind the thief, toying with him. The neophyte loosened his sword in its sheath. Should he intervene or shouldn't he? Another human, perhaps a year older than him, was about to die. But the Keepers never interfered. Drawing the blade, Garrett stared down at it. He hadn't killed anyone with it before. Hadn't seen its bright surface stained and corrupted. If he bloodied his sword now, would he feel guilty later? Would anyone wait for the guard to come home? Would anyone stare out of the window, desperately searching with their eyes for a figure in the gloom?  
  
Would the Builder condemn him for such a cold act? Did the Builder even care? Garrett still clung to a hazy idea of religion and prayer, a nail to hang his convictions and hopes on as he stood over the void of mindless servitude, the demesne of most Keepers. Chaos and balance both sought to claim him as he watched the smooth, icy metal blade.  
  
A cold brutality in the guard's face. Keeper concepts and laws. Compassion. Ambition. Mercy. Chaos, swirling in his mind and dominating his thoughts. Balance, what a sick joke. There was never balance in life. Something wrenched inside him, forced his hand. Blood. Red as a sunset, dark as the shadows, horrifying as the whispers in your ear, when you're all alone. The dying man's knife arced through the air, a ribbon of liquid silver that glittered like a thousand broken rainbows. A thin line of scarlet on his arm, a searing pain, sharp as a spear point in the sun.  
  
Sheathing his sword, he wound the hem of his cloak around the wound and staggered out of the shadows. A flicker of white caught his eye, and he knelt to pick up a scrap of paper. Hill Street. Fenning. Jason. The words echoed mockingly in his mind as the ground beneath his feet blurred. 


	4. Chapter four

Garrett opened his eyes and screamed. Screamed at the betrayal and terror in the darkest depths of his mind. They had done this, they had forced his hand. They had dragged him down into their pits of depravity and bloodshed. The Keepers had transformed him into this divided, tormented creature, his morals and human emotions battling this animal desire for the thrill of the hunt. All his conflicted mind could grasp was that it was their fault. Garrett stared down at his hands, clenching into fists as if to beat away the memories. No. He would not drown in this dark well of anguish again. It had tormented him enough, and now it was time to let go.  
  
Sal shivered as she stared into a pair of eyes that were as dark and relentless as the Trickster's. "It's a wicked cold night, isn't it, sir?" The stranger's silence was unnerving, if nothing else. Her pulse stirred from its usual steady, sound beat and began to race "a drink, sir?" The barmaid's hand hovered over a bottle uncertainly as she blinked away icy sweat. She drew back sharply as a low voice cut through the constant, reassuring stream of laughter and idle chatter in the background. "Do you know of a man called Jason?" Sal's eyes widened "no, sir."  
  
He seemed so sure of himself, but a slight tremor betrayed him. He had potential, but he was young, so young. Well, no matter. Either a guild would adopt him, or he would become nothing more than a splat on the pavement.  
  
The barmaid shook off her reverie long enough to realise that the stranger had melted into the shadows. 'So young' was her last thought about the cloaked figure who had questioned her, and she turned with a smile to a patron, already forgetting the unusual man. Such was the mark of a Keeper.  
  
A passing watchman glanced up, interested, at the faint whisper of cloth. Raising his sword, he marched into the shadows with a boldness that could be fatal in a job like this. A low, heavy thump mingled with a sudden, inexplicable pain was the last thing he felt before he slumped down, unconscious. The dark figure that lowered its arm behind him drew its hand back into the recesses of its cloak, emerging seconds later to grasp a bulky shoulder and haul the man's body into an empty guest bedroom.  
  
"How much did we make on that last export of wool, Tyler?" Garrett flattened himself against the crumbling, uneven wall, desperately searching for an alcove or a shadow, anything. A merchant prince, bedecked in the rich court finery of his class, entered the hallway, a pasty-faced, sweating clerk dogging his heels. A fine chain circled his neck, rings adorned his hands and a belt fashioned from links of gold was clasped round his waist. Garrett's eyes were drawn past the red silken doublet and hose, the oiled black hair and beard and greedy face, straight to the precious metal.  
  
No choice left- he would have to fight. Drawing his dagger, he allowed himself only a moment of hesitation before slashing low into the merchant's stomach, jerking the blade up and into the beating heart. The clerk squawked, face becoming even more pale and rat-like. Garrett acted swiftly, but not swiftly enough. The panicked yells of the guards rang out, loud and hysterical. Poorly trained and ill prepared, they froze, seeing only a cloaked figure lowering a limp body to the ground, not the small details- like the size of the murderer, perhaps an adolescent from the slender frame. As one, they turned and fled; seeking reinforcements in the comfortable knowledge that they could hang back and watch veterans do the work. None of them looked back.  
  
Garrett stripped the bodies of jewellery, money and valuables, cursing his poor luck as his performed the grisly task. Time to leave. Sheathing his dagger, he rose swiftly and exited the narrow corridor. Slipping down the shadowy back stairs, the thief crossed the deserted kitchen with a silence that most would have found chilling. The fire left lit, the dirty plates and bowls, the wine bottles and the half-eaten food abandoned for the rats to steal did not improve his first assessment of the occupants of the house. 'This merchant may be prosperous, but he can't find servants or guards worth a copper penny' was Garrett's only thought as he viewed the dirt with contempt.  
  
There were no heavy footsteps or loud, impatient orders, only silence as one minute, he was examining a particularly rare wine bottle, the next, staring at the guards that surrounded him. Feeling the weight of the flashbomb in his hand- dropped from his sleeve in the shadows of his cloak- he threw it in one fluid movement, turning his back swiftly as the neuron- searing light blinded his enemies.  
  
Not stopping to look behind him- a dangerous oversight- Garrett sprinted towards the side door he had used to enter the mansion several hours earlier. A foot slammed into the small of his back, and another kicked his hands away from his weapons, into the torchlight. He felt the air move as a sword flashed down, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain that would inevitably come. And yet...the stroke never fell. 


End file.
